


You're all the hurt I need

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arson, Bloodplay, But somehow oddly sweet, Dubious Ethics, Fluid Sexuality, Fucked Up, Healthy for them, Identity Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentioned Animal Violence, Murder, Past Drug Use, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25524205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: "I dream about him. A lot. And before you ask, I know it's a him, but I don't know who he is," Matthew begins. "It's like I'm a bird watching from a tree. A spectator of the blood sport. Maybe a hawk."
Relationships: Matthew Brown/Randall Tier
Kudos: 3





	You're all the hurt I need

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when ReallyMissCoffee wants more of my Matthew Brown, more rare pair goodness! Despite all the heavy tags, this isn't really that dark or unhealthy for them (weirdly enough)... 
> 
> We started this 2 years ago, actually as an offshoot of a younger!Hannibal/older!Will soulmate AU, which we may one day get back to, but this was easier to get into and wrap up and Randall and Matthew need more love.
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : This is another merrythoughts & ReallyMissCoffee production. In case you don't know us, just a heads up: this is written first and foremost as an alternating roleplay between us which doesn't necessarily translate smoothly into an easily digestible or traditional fic format.
> 
> At times the flow can be jarring - we know - but please forgo any constructive criticism regarding the format. We are choosing to share our work and if you like it, you like it, if not, press the back button and try something else as we have no interest in attempting to fic-ify our stories and cut down on the introspection/words etc. Thanks! :)

* * *

* * *

The museum is a stopgap at best, almost a family mausoleum on the bad days. These days, they're all bad.

How does one reconcile what's in the mind when it doesn't match the body?

Species dysphoria. A simple name for endless longing and anxiety and self-hatred. For uncertain glances and isolation and eye contact that lasts for mere moments. For even if people can't see what he feels, something in their amygdala registers a threat, hurrying their steps and averting their eyes.

He's been called many things over the years. Unsettling. Creepy. Freak. _Monster_. Words used to describe something they don't understand.

They don't see the bone-breaking jaws, or feel the rippling of sinew and muscle under his skin. They can't see the phantom of fangs, long and sharp, or the rigidness in his hands as his mind tries desperately to force out claws that aren't there. They don't see the power in his flank, the glint of his eyes. They don't feel the thirst, the taste for blood, for power, for racing in the night, wind in his fur, the earth torn to shreds under his claws.

All they see is what he sees when he looks at himself in the mirror. Dark, glittering, intelligent eyes, pale skin, a plain face, though with sharper angles, as though his very biology had been trying to work towards his goal, and long, powerful limbs hidden behind the long white coat of the museum attendants.

They see weakness.

So does Randall.

*** * ***

He'd been but a boy when his parents had dragged him to a therapist. Even decades later, he can recall the terror, the confusion, like an animal trapped in a cage. _Species dysphoria_ , they'd said. Or a few of them had. Most had argued the validity of such a thing, but all he'd known was that they were trying to tell him he was crazy. He'd been given pills that dulled his mind and made him lounge about in a stupor, too dazed to connect with himself in any way. When he'd complained, it had been to the tune of his parents exchanging uncomfortable looks and explaining that it had been the _point_.

He'd taken to flushing the pills in the end. Even the mind-numbing anxiety and panic and loathing had been better than the dazed nothing.

But as he'd aged, so had his desires. Fantasies had darkened his mind, frustrating by how he could never truly reconcile them. He'd lost himself in avatars, in worlds of his own making. In dreams and illicit drugs that had made him feel, if only briefly, like he'd had claws and fangs.

It had been short-lived. When he'd woken in a numb daze in the middle of the woods, cold blood tacky between his fingers and against his cheek, the sightless eyes of what might have once been a rabbit staring back at him, he'd been just shy of elated. His parents had not been. They hadn't wanted to hear his excuses, that whenever he looked at his hands, they were but mannequin-like in their realism. That whenever he bared his teeth, he could feel a gaping emptiness where his fangs should have been.

So he'd learned to hide it. To suffer, to wallow in his body like an ill-fitting suit. A mindless void of hatred that he'd clawed marks into, as though his real self could potentially lie beneath were he to just claw hard enough. It had never worked, but it had helped, at least a little.

*** * ***

Randall's body still bears the scars, and though the bad days have increased with his knowledge of himself, of what he is, of what he's been missing, he no longer actively takes it out on his own skin. During the time in his youth where he had believed so fervently that his true form existed beneath, he'd taken to contorting himself. To flexing muscles, to working each one, to feeling as powerful as possible. He'd calculated the force he'd need to break bone, had figured out the angle of torsion when he'd reached his late teens, and he'd put it into practice in small ways.

Those small ways have become bigger now, though not perfect. Never perfect. His parents had hoped he might become a doctor or a veterinarian with his growing knowledge of anatomy and physics, but his path had never taken him down that road. Their death had been empty. A car crash. Randall hadn't grieved. He'd hardly stopped. Instead, he'd used the inheritance for a single purpose: to buy his own place, and to apply to college.

An engineering degree. He'd learned everything there, but instead of moving on to an engineering firm, he'd taken other work.

A zoo at first, until people had started sending him untrustworthy glances at his lack of social skills. A conservation officer, until he'd been written up one too many times for violence. Finally, the museum, where he'd been met with suspicion over taking such a low position with such an advanced degree.

"Change of passion," he'd said tonelessly when the curator had asked him. Then he'd assembled the pieces of a saber in his first two weeks and the job had been his from then on, though behind the scenes, away from people. No tours, no information sessions.

Even if no one had known, they'd still _known_ at heart. Randall hadn't cared. He still doesn't.

Because now he has access.

*** * ***

It's a saber at first, the heavy skull, the wide, powerful jaws, and Randall steals it home to work on in his basement. Gone are the days of buying pelts from hunters to sling over his shoulders, trying to manufacture the weight and warmth and feel of fur over his skin. Now he's working on his own.

The jaws require a spring-lock to work, and Randall almost stabs himself through the hand the first time he gets it to work, but his elation is thrilling. He wraps his hand and stares at blood on the fangs and he _aches_ to fit them in his own skin, but can't. So, instead he sneaks onto a farm in the dead of night and blood runs over the fangs again.

But the skull is small, impossible to wear. When he tries another, it's small as well. The only skull he finds that _fits_ is that of the cave bear, and it's not right, but it's big enough, and it will do.

The skull is heavy enough to weigh him down, to make his neck feel close to bursting, so he works out even harder until his body can cope with the weight. The claws are bulky and it isn't the quick movements he aches for, but there's power in his claws - _his claws -_ and the feeling of life ending under them the first time almost makes him collapse to his living room floor in a sobbing heap when he finally makes it home.

For the first time, he feels real. For the first time, he has an outlet.

When he goes to work the next day, even his boss comments on his demeanor, on the odd lightness in his step despite the same glittering darkness of his eyes. He catches himself smiling for what feels like the first time in decades, but even in the back of his mind, he knows this is but a taste. Animals aren't the prey he wants to hunt. He feels no desire to end them, to tear through their bones when it's _power_ he craves.

But Randall doesn't act. He can't. Despite his desires, despite his suspicions, he isn't ready to die. His days of self-harm, while not over, are no longer serious attempts. Not now. Not now that he's finally gotten a taste, but he can't risk it yet, if ever.

A taste is all he's ever needed. He can survive on a taste.

* * *

Awaiting her fate in the fire pit, the doll lies motionless, arms outstretched. Instead of watching Saturday cartoons, eleven-year-old Matthew Brown is playing executioner. From a dirty red canister, he pours gasoline over his sister’s doll. Match lit, it sails down and as soon as the flame touches her, the once-beloved doll immediately catches fire. Matthew doesn’t look away, hungrily watching as the plastic begins to bubble, as her hair singes. Smoke curls and lifts into the sky as it disperses – light and free. Matthew’s lips curl into a small smile – entranced and captured.

The burning plastic smells awful – not like the strange allure of the gasoline, at least – but he doesn’t look away. The flames dance in Matthew’s eyes; this is much more captivating than anything he’s ever seen on TV or in movies.

Upon the discovery of the charred and now mutated doll, his little sister shrieks and wails, grubby fingers curling into fists as she feebly tries to hit him. But Matthew’s always been quick – quick enough to steal the toy in the first place and quick enough to dart away from his sister now. Poor Amy-doll had been lost to the flames...

Matthew doesn’t understand _why_ it matters – it was just a doll. Still, once he’s tattled on, his mother is furious. Screaming his name, long frizzy hair flies behind her as she chases him through the house. She waves her half-smoked cigarette around, grey ashes sprinkling down and creating a mess he’ll undoubtedly have to clean up later.

He may be quick, but when his mother is angry, she’s a charging bull. When she finally corners him, the smacks of her palm connecting with his cheek sound nothing like the calming crackle of flames. Matthew thinks he’d love to see her hair burn just like the doll’s. Would it smell the same? Would it look the same after? Questions erratically spark, his curiosity lighting up.

In school, when his interest in fire is brought up, he calmly tells his teacher that he wants to become a firefighter and save people. This becomes Matthew’s go-to answer when asked what he wants to be when he grows up.

And upon hearing this answer, the adults all smile with their teeth, but those smiles never quite reach their eyes. They’re strained, polite smiles that adults force on their faces when they don’t know what else to do, or when something feels just a bit off. Matthew is used to seeing these, because he’s the something that's just a bit off. He’s a collector of these constrained, toothy smiles that adults wear.

Matthew may not understand his love of fire, but he knows that the prospect of becoming a firefighter keeps him safe. Every good story has a hero after all. He could pretend to be that hero.

In his living room, sitting campfire style on the shag rug, Matthew intently watches the six o’clock news play out. He wishes that the church fire would have continued to burn and burn and spread like bad forest fires tend to. Those fires rage and rage and rage...

Predictably, the firefighters saved the day. The church’s skeleton remains mostly intact, charred and damaged but proudly standing. The parishioners valiantly rally together, wet eyed and vowing to rebuild.

Thinking about the burnt doll, Matthew realizes that getting caught is the problem. Getting caught again is what Matthew can’t have. It’s then he decides that he's definitely going to become a firefighter.

*** * ***

Matthew gets sent to juvie for starting a few fires. Well, for getting caught. That's the important part. He channels his aggression into working out and getting fit. He doesn't make friends, but he watches people socialize. He watches the other boys fight for respect and control. He watches them lie badly, watches some act cunning like snakes. He watches them create their own rules.

All the while Matthew behaves and goes through the motions with those who are here to supposedly help him. He knows what he has to do to be able to get out. There's a system here and he intends to play it.

His mom visits him only a few times and looks predictably disappointed. Matthew still thinks he'd like to light her hair on fire.

When he gets released, he gets a few tattoos and the jab of the needle is thrilling. He works his ass off so he can move out. He becomes an orderly at a hospital for whackos and he observes.

This time, whenever he starts a fire, he makes sure that he doesn't get caught.

*** * ***

He's on a date. Candice had wanted to go to the Museum of Natural History, so here he is putting on a good show and hoping he'll get laid afterward (a guy can dream). There's a lot of people. Tourists. Families. Kids. Matthew kinda hates how clean and polished the whole place is. It's not his type of place, that's for sure.

It's weird seeing a bunch of skeletons put together. Once living, now dead and now on display for the public to gawk at. It makes Matthew think about cremation and how the body doesn't really become ash. After all the watery and soft fleshy bits are burnt off, there's only bones that are then ground down to dust. Matthew already knows that he would rather go up in flames than decompose and rot in a box. What a waste of space. Matthew wants the flames to devour him.

Sometimes Matthew thinks the whole world should burn too. Humans suck.

At some point he's wandered off from Candice. He meanders about until he finds himself in a less populated corridor and someone catches his eye.

It's a man. Young. Not remarkable looking. Museum employee from the badge that Matthew sees. The man looks perturbed though. Agitated for whatever reason. Matthew sees him yank up his sleeve and dig nails into his wrist before walking into an alcove to hide away.

Matthew looks down at the faded burn marks on his own arms. He remembers making them. He remembers the surge of relief at being able to do something, at _causing_ something, at the pain flaring up.

When the man emerges from the alcove less than a minute later, he looks pulled back together, mask back in place. Matthew smirks as he makes his way over to the alcove. He sees a few little dots of blood on the bench which is impressive enough because it would take some enthusiasm to be able to draw blood with fingernails alone. His hand reaches down and fingers swipe at the blood.

"Hey, you forgot this," he calls out, but the man has already moved on and the other patrons shoot him a look before deciding to ignore him. Matthew takes his finger to his mouth and pops the tip in, sucking the blood off of it.

Hey, he can be helpful when he wants.

*** * ***

It's two weeks later that Matthew is left standing in front of his bathroom mirror. He's naked and looking at himself with an incredulous expression on his face. Maybe even amused.

He's been feeling increasingly... off. Uncomfortable, at first. An itch that couldn't be relieved. He started a few fires and while he'd enjoyed the planning, the act and the aftermath, it hadn't sated him. Matthew had splurged on beer and pizza. He'd fucked. He'd worked out at the gym until his muscles screamed. Nothing helped. After a reckless evening and getting picked up by the cops, he'd been only ordered into therapy and community service because of his "clean" adult record.

Matthew doesn't know much about soulmates. He's never cared about them. He never believed that he'd be the recipient or donor of such a bond. Why would he? He's solitary. Matthew doesn't care about love and romance. Never has and likely never will.

But apparently he is a stupid recipient of the bond. The guy at the museum. His blood. After some research, it's the only thing that makes sense. The timeline fits and Matthew needs to go back and find him...

*** * ***

"I dream about him. A lot. And before you ask, I know it's a him, but I don't know who he is," Matthew begins. "It's like I'm a bird watching from a tree. A spectator of the blood sport. Maybe a hawk."

The therapist nods. Her pen scribbles and Matthew, leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, pays her no mind. His eyes are closed and he's as comfortable as he can be in state-ordered therapy. This is his second appointment and he's gotta give it to Amna that she puts up with him surprisingly well. He hasn't thought about blowing her brains out, not even once.

"I never thought it would be a guy."

"Does the gender of your potential soulmate bother you?"

"Dick, pussy, whatever. Genitals are weird, at the end of the day, it doesn't matter," he answers easily.

"What does matter then?"

This has Matthew's eyes opening and he meets her own dark brown pair.

"The way he tears and bites."

Her head tilts ever so slightly to the side. Matthew can tell she's more interested than disturbed (which is why he likes her).

"You said these dreams were often violent in nature," she comments, tone neutral, her posture relaxed but professional. "Who is the violence perpetrated on?"

Matthew doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he decides to sit up. He glances around the bland office. It's devoid of personality and screams of a government job. Briefly, Matthew wonders how it would look burning.

"Animals."

"What do you think of that?" She asks.

"Do I feel sorry for them? Does it bother me? Does it excite me?"

The doctor says nothing, ever patient and not chomping at the bit. At least not yet. Matthew thinks he could get her going if he wanted, just give him time.

"It's nothing personal," Matthew finally explains. "Beasts attack. Predators prey."

* * *

Randall overhears two of his co-workers talking about it in passing and slows as he walks across the break room floor. It's a passing comment, two women talking with a newspaper stretched out beside them. _Animal attacks_ , he hears. _Page six_. Randall glances at the open newspaper without expression, and he only continues on his way when one of the women looks at him oddly. He blinks at her and then turns away, walking out of the room with a water bottle in hand.

It must be a slow news day if animal attacks are being reported, but the words dig into his mind like claws, gripping and then carefully tearing. He feels the words split something in his mind, and once he's safely near his own exhibits, he's _there_ again.

Outwardly he stops, looking at one of the skeletons in front of him, but inwardly he remembers the feeling of his suit weighing him down, remembers the terrified bleats of the sheep, remembers the blood he'd later washed off in the shower and how it had swirled like watercolor as it had trailed down the drain. If only the jaws didn't need spring-locks. If only he could sharpen his teeth and sink them in deeply. If only he could feel flesh tear and taste the blood and not need to spend hours cleaning blood from in between springs and metal joints.

He sighs, and a familiar shiver runs up his spine. He opens his eyes again and looks at the skull before him - a dire wolf - the bones stained with age and the skeleton long and powerful and light. He admires the way the bones have been positioned - his own work. The legs are outstretched, the jaws parted as if in the middle of a hunt, jaws about to crush. If only... but no. Dire wolves had been pack hunters. Randall can't imagine sharing his moments with another. He can't imagine understanding.

It takes him longer than he'd have liked to realize that he has an audience. He hadn't noticed as the man staring at him is hardly moving. Randall gets the impression of sharp eyes and intelligence, of something predatory, of something cunning and it makes him tense. He stands rigid until the would-be-instincts within him calm and he forces the intensity and aggression to quiet. He draws a slow breath, holds it for six seconds, then lets it out. When he blinks again, he's more composed.

"The museum tour isn't until two," he says, and the words feel clumsy on his tongue. He's not supposed to talk to anyone. "This exhibit is closed for another hour. You can't be here."

* * *

Matthew knows he has to go back to the museum because he has to find the guy he dreams about - _his_ soulmate. His soulmate apparently is someone who rends and tears the flesh of animals. Cool. The dreams aren't too clear, though.

Matthew _feels_ more than _sees_ in the dreams. He doesn't know how the man actually enacts the violence upon the animals. There's images of claws and teeth, which he knows doesn't make much sense, but hey, the world is a strange enough place where soulmates exist.

Soulmates are rare. Matthew had never expected or wanted one. There doesn't seem to be many perks either. He's certainly had none (at least in this phase). It's annoying to be so fucking _off._ His skin itches, his mind buzzes. Contentment is non-existent. Nothing makes it better. Not food or sleep or sex or drugs. He's gotta find him.

So one not-so-special day, Matthew decides to go look - to return to the scene of the incident. There's no guarantee that he'll find him, of course. He doesn't have a name and Matthew doesn't plan on asking or describing his potential soulmate either. He just wants to go back to the environment where they met. After all, this is where his soulmate works, Matthew should be interested. He's dressed in a nicer pair of jeans (for him) and a grey hoodie that covers his Metallica band t-shirt. He wanders around the museum, hands stuffed in his pockets to keep from fidgeting.

It's almost ridiculous how the feeling of _better_ creeps up on him when he turns into a hall that had been roped off (he's always been good at being inconspicuous). Matthew knows immediately it's his guy. Dressed in work slacks, bland button down shirt, a white overcoat, neat hair. Pale. Unremarkable looking.

But he's remarkable for Matthew and Matthew stills, just watching him and feeling altogether better than he has for days now. The buzz lessens, the achiness and annoying itch decreases. His mind feels more clear and it's an utter fucking relief.

The man eventually notices him and Matthew's head cocks to the side as the realization of being watched hits his soulmate. Matthew stares unabashedly and as the man speaks, he detects a little awkwardness, as if the guy isn't used to having to socialize with the public (and he probably isn't). Matthew doesn't immediately respond. Instead, he smiles and steps closer to the man and the skeleton he'd been looking at.

"I'm not interested in the museum tour," Matthew explains. "I'm interested in you. My name's Matthew."

* * *

People don't come back here until Randall is safe behind the closed doors, usually. Every now and then he's set out to fix an exhibit or work on tidying the place up. Every now and then people ask him questions, or try to engage him in conversation, and he's forced to fall back on old tricks and tips in order to get through the interactions. It's not that he _can't_ communicate with other people, it's just that it's sometimes like speaking a foreign language.

There are rules for everything, from eye contact to intensity, from shaking hands to casual touches. Everything has a meaning and regardless of how Randall tries to make his body work the way society says it should, he can't ever seem to tame the creature under his skin. Eventually, most people notice, at least enough to uncomfortably excuse themselves. He's only gotten written up over it once at least. It's a minor inconvenience.

But it's still upsetting. Randall hadn't expected anyone to stop by today; he hadn't anticipated communication. But here he is, standing in front of a man he doesn't know, with eyes that seem infinitely more intense than anyone else who has ever come to ask him something.

When the man doesn't immediately leave, Randall braces himself. Museum rules. He's supposed to be polite, supposed to smile, supposed to direct the public. He doesn't feel like doing any of it. He's still trying to find the urge to smile when the man - Matthew apparently - steps away from the doorway and instead takes a few steps closer. Randall blinks, then tenses. People don't often come _close_ to him. He can feel his hackles rising. (Or he would be able to, if only...)

"I don't care what your name is. You're not supposed to _be_ here. If you have a complaint about my conduct, you can file it at the front desk," he says, and there's a touch of nervous agitation in his tone. "I don't know you."

* * *

It's him. It's fucking him. The realization and knowledge pound in Matthew's chest and head. He's never been so fucking glad to see someone in his entire life. He almost wants to laugh, but he holds it in. His eyes flick down to the ID badge on the man's chest. He doesn't care if he's being nosey. This is his fucking soulmate. If anyone is allowed to do this, he is. So Matthew does and he reads the name:

_Randall Tier._

Randall Tier looks a little twitchy. Randall Tier also looks displeased at both being approached and talked to. Matthew has the peculiar feeling that the acknowledgement and socializing actually bother Randall _more_ than Matthew not obeying the so-called rules. Interesting.

Matthew blatantly looks him over, from the tidy hair to the polished but plain shoes. All he's missing is a pocket protector. Randall may be taller than him, but Matthew is bigger, not by a lot, mind you. Even so, Matthew has seen and felt Randall's savagery. This man standing before him who is being curt and almost rude with him is a farce.

"Ah, but I know _you_ ," Matthew murmurs, his eyes twinkling as he takes a step closer and his hand snaps out to grip the wrist Randall had been self-harming. Even this simple touch has relief washing over him. He doesn't want to let go. He can't imagine letting go and not being this close to Randall.

"Few weeks ago you were clawing at this wrist. You bled on the bench and I happened to help myself to it. A week after that I started dreaming about your teeth ripping into livestock. I've been feeling the _symptoms_."

Matthew has no reason to be coy. He cuts to the point and says what needs to be said. And anyone with a basic knowledge about soulmates should be able to put two and two together.

* * *

Matthew comes closer and something in Randall's chest begins to snarl. People don't often invade his space and so he doesn't have much experience with how to handle it. One moment there's space between them, and the next there's suddenly a hand grabbing at his wrist. Randall's soft exclamation is muffled behind clenched teeth, a failed growl that gets caught in his chest the way it always does and only comes out as a bitten-off exhale.

He tenses and immediately makes to pull his wrist back, but the man in front of him is deceptively strong. Randall's brow furrows in alarm and he tries to pull back again and again, but Matthew's grip is tight. There's a panic button on the far wall, but Randall can't reach it from where he's standing. But as he looks back to try and ascertain just how far away it really _is_ , Matthew speaks, and as much as Randall doesn't want to listen, he does.

It clicks almost immediately. While he does shoot Matthew a look of alarm at the mention of what he'd been doing to his wrist at the time (he remembers that, but he doesn't remember Matthew), and at the knowledge that Matthew _knows_ about what he's been doing, he understands what this man is telling him. The notion of Matthew 'helping himself' to Randall's blood is oddly the one thing he doesn't seem to react to. In his mind, at least, it makes sense. He's been tempted to do the same thing in the past.

The fight leaves him gradually, but it _does_ leave. Randall's frantic pulling to escape settles to a simple tension all through him, but when dark eyes look Matthew over again, it's in a different light.

Soulmates are rare. They're practically unheard of, seen as fantasy, or seen as bids for attention. While Randall knows that some high-profile cases have been fought and won, the majority of the world believe it to either be a fake condition or one played up for movies and media. The concept of soulmates are romanticized, but when faced with true soulmates, there are few resources and little sympathy for those affected, for those who are _faking_ it.

Randall believes in them, though. So many animals mate for life. While he's never thought of himself as anything but solitary - while the concept of _sharing_ any part of himself with another person has never registered in him as a possibility - he doesn't question what Matthew is telling him. Instead, he looks around quickly, as if checking to make sure that no one else is hearing it. Then he looks down at his wrist, where the faded white scars still remain under the sleeve of his overcoat.

"You've been watching," he says, guardedly, as if uncertain. "Watching _me_. Because you tasted my blood and earned yourself a bond. Have you... told anyone?"

* * *

While Matthew isn't the type to necessarily play nice, he's usually not this forward - at least, not with someone he's just met. Not with a _stranger_... but Randall doesn't feel like a stranger to him. How could he be? Matthew has been dreaming about Randall. He's been longing to meet him, his body out of sorts, his mind fuzzy. Work had been a struggle. He'd called in once, even. The fact that Randall's proximity is this much of a relief is proof enough that a bond is there.

Matthew sees that Randall isn't pleased by his assertiveness. There's a curious flicker of alarm in Randall's eyes, like a snared wild animal. Matthew doesn't mean to upset Randall, he just can't have Randall walking away until he's said what needs to be said (and honestly touching Randall, even through the layers of clothing, gives Matthew a reprieve). Thankfully Randall doesn't scream rape or murder and he actually listens to him.

Randall also stops trying to pull his arm away.

Something settles in Matthew. A stupid fucking _rightness_ is present. It still seems bizarre that this has happened to him, but the proof is right here. He's living it. As Randall looks him over Matthew wets his lips, feeling pleased by the attention.

"The dreams are... they aren't exactly the most clear," Matthew says softly. "My court-appointed therapist knows a little, but she's just humoring me. I doubt she believes me at all. But... I want to see _it._ I want to see how you do it."

* * *

Physical symptoms of discomfort, described as ants crawling beneath the skin. Psychological symptoms. Shared dreams in the late stages, shared flashes of memory and present somewhere between.

Randall knows the symptoms even if he's never cared to imagine that the controversy around soulmates could mean that they're real. He's always believed in them, but believing that he'd _have_ one is another matter altogether. How can he be soulmates with a man he's never met? How can he rip open the doors of his life and let another in, knowing what he does, knowing _who_ he is? If the inside doesn't match the outside, what is Matthew bonded to? His body, or his mind?

It's a complicated conundrum, because as far as he knows, inter-species bonds don't exist. The knowledge threatens to make discomfort crawl up his skin, threatens to make him feel like he needs to get _out_ of it. Does this mean he's just a man? That he _is_ crazy?

No. Randall quiets those thoughts, though not before he notices a bite of pain in his thigh from where he'd dug the nails of his free hand into it. He breathes deep, chases the _wrong_ away, and he listens.

The therapist is bad. Randall's never met a good therapist before, but he doesn't panic. His jaw tightens but he nods stiffly, accepting it. Court-appointed therapy is an evil that can't be chased away. It just _is._ But when Matthew goes on, when he claims to want to _see it_ , something lodges in his chest. He glances at Matthew sharply, with dark, wary eyes. What he does is private. It's always _been_ private.

Like an animal in a trap, Randall's muscles tense, as if plotting the quickest escape, but there's nowhere to escape _to_.

He slides a look to his right, looking at the powerful jaws of what had once been a dire wolf. Randall admires the long, strong bones of the skeleton, the body built to kill. When he looks back at Matthew, he thinks he sees the glimmer of something similar in his eyes. Randall tries one last time to pull his arm away, but only to feel the strength in Matthew's hand. Then, without saying a word, Randall tips his head to the side, indicating a locked door. He curls his own fingers in Matthew's sleeve and - looking to ensure no one can see them - Randall turns and leads the way.

He unlocks the door with a pass of his key card and it opens to reveal a stairway. It isn't until he's led Matthew to the top of it, into a dimly-lit room filled with an unsorted collection of empty display cases and signs and old, broken rope guards that he finally turns back to him.

"Are you... like me?" He asks cautiously.

* * *

This shit is still crazy. Why him? Because he'd been impulsive and licked at some stranger's blood and it just happened that they were what, destined to meet? It still sounds weird. It still sounds unbelievable. Matthew had never cared about the phenomena of soulmates before. They're not even well-received, at least not in developed countries.

But he's been living the reality of it. He's had the aggravating symptoms and now they've all lessened simply from Randall's presence, from their close proximity. And Matthew has never needed companionship or romance. He's never needed sex, either. He _likes_ sex, sure. Fucking and getting off feels good, but all of the other stuff? It always seemed overrated to him. Anniversaries, candle-lit dinners, the expectations of dating and relationships? Bothersome and a chore.

Right now, it's one-sided. Matthew is the recipient and Randall Tier is the donor. Randall isn't going to experience any symptoms and the bond isn't complete unless it's _accepted_ by the donor _._ Randall needs to become exposed to his bodily fluids for that to happen, too. Basically, it sucks to be the recipient but it is what it is.

He notices Randall's other hand clench and nails dig into his thigh. Matthew doesn't know the appropriate reaction to this kind of thing. He knows that being this close to Randall is making Randall uncomfortable. He gets it. He also is refusing to let Randall's arm go. When Randall indicates that he wants them to move, Matthew complies. There's no reason to stay here and risk exposure. He follows as Randall leads and Matthew's pulse picks up from the excitement.

Randall Tier _likes_ killing the animals. He revels in their cries of terror, in the gore. Matthew knows that much and that much is a fucking thrill. He's led to some sort of storage room and when Randall asks his question, Matthew's other hand comes to the white sleeve and he unceremoniously yanks the jacket and shirt sleeve up, exposing various faded scars and some healing wounds.

Matthew lifts Randall's wrist up to his mouth and he licks slowly as if he was trying to care for the wound. He doesn't know exactly _why_ he does it, but it just makes sense to him.

"I don't think so, but... whatever you are, whoever you are, I like it and I want to know more," Matthew murmurs as his mouth lifts off of Randall's skin, his lips are moist as he looks up into Randall's face.

"I've seen your savagery... I want you to bite me, make me bleed. Taste me."

* * *

Randall isn't thinking about the logistics of it. He's thinking about how not to get caught. There are security cameras that he knows the placements of, and thus far the two of them have managed to bypass them entirely, but there are more against the wall and by the other door. If anyone sees them, he'll be written up. People will inquire. And if this man _is_ in _court-mandated_ therapy, Randall doesn't want to feel questioning eyes on himself. But he also can't ignore what this is, what he's been told. So he does the only thing he can: he relocates them to where he _knows_ no one else will be.

His question is halting, almost hesitant. But before he can even finish it, Matthew's other hand reaches up and Randall tenses in surprise. That hand suddenly pulls at his sleeve, ripping it up almost violently. Randall half-struggles once his mind catches up, but the thin white scars and the long, thick scars are already visible, cluttering the insides of his wrist and forearm. Nail marks - red with swelling - are also present from an incident he'd had a few days ago, when his mind had been hissing violently at him. Shame and anger crash down, excuses leaping to mind, but before he can even put them into words, Matthew is lifting his wrist and--

The pass of Matthew's tongue makes Randall draw in a sharp gasp. There's nothing subtle about it. He watches, eyes wide, as his personal space is not only invaded, but decimated. And yet there's something so... base about it, especially when Randall's still-healing wounds are bathed. His pulse quickens, and it honestly takes him a few seconds to register that Matthew is speaking. When he does, though... _oh_ , when he does...

Randall's upper lip curls, and in that split second, the mask shifts. Placid, pale, and expressionless becomes the glint of ferocity and danger in dark eyes and the hint of a snarl on bared teeth. His jaws ache with the desire to bite, to crush, to feel his fangs cleave through flesh and tear it apart, and the _need_ of it almost makes him shake.

A distant voice in the back of his mind hisses caution; biting to bleed would be accepting the bond, would be _promising_ himself - his life - to a man he doesn't know. But he's never had someone want to feel his fangs before. He's never had someone look at the beast within and see kin. They might not be alike, but Matthew doesn't look scared.

"You'd let me bite you bloody," Randall says, and there's a tremble of something as close to excitement in his voice. "Just for the bond, or because I would?"

* * *

Matthew has never licked someone like _this_. He's licked tits and pussy, but this is so obviously non-sexual. If he were to see anyone else do this he would have thought they were a freak. On some level Matthew understands that animals lick other wounds to make them feel better - a show of comfort, maybe? He doesn't exactly know. He's not some animal behaviorist. Randall's wrist and forearm taste slightly salty, but what interests Matthew is the texture of the scars against his tongue and how Randall gasps audibly.

Matthew offers. Yeah, a part of him doesn't want to be alone in the dumb bond. A part of him wants to drag Randall down with him, for them to both be helplessly tangled.

Another part simply delights in seeing that blank-but-wary face crumble before him and Matthew sees the feral, wild glint in Randall's eyes. He can almost hear the snarl that is close to coming out. Matthew then realizes he's so fucking hard that it almost hurts. He wants to know and understand, he wants to see the violence that this young man wreaks. Matthew wants to see the splatter of blood on the ground. He wants to lick the blood off of Randall.

Randall answers and asks, his voice soft but there's a quiver present. Matthew isn't the only one invested in this moment. He may not understand everything at play, obviously Randall is suffering from some sort of delusion (or so the professionals would claim).

Matthew lets go of Randall's wrist and rolls up the sleeve of his hoodie. On his inner forearm are small burn marks in the shape of cigarettes. He both shows and offers it to Randall.

"Like a flame, you call to me," Matthew says simply. "I don't care if I get burnt. I want to see you. The real you. The one that spills blood and leaves carnage."

* * *

Soulmates are rare, and in that rarity there exists a danger. There are very few ways that Soulmates can find help in society. Support is practically nonexistent, as anyone afflicted tends to be seen as someone only looking for attention, or lying. Randall has seen the statistics even if he's never really had an interest in finding a Soulmate, or in consuming media about them. It's controversy, plain and simple.

The recipient - the one the bond initially happens _to_ \- and the donor - the one that _supplies_ the bond inadvertently - rarely consider the bond a good thing. The recipient most of all, as the supposed physical symptoms and psychological symptoms can be Hell, and they can be permanent if a bond is never accepted.

Randall knows that _that_ is likely what's prompting Matthew's words. Were he in the same position, he wouldn't want to be trapped in a one-sided bond either. But accepting such a risk without knowing someone is reckless and dangerous. He doesn't know this man. Should he really trust someone who had apparently tasted his blood without reason?

The snarl is still on his lips when Matthew lets go of his wrist. Randall stands, almost feeling knocked off balance, and he watches as Matthew reaches down and rolls up his sleeve. Immediately, Randall feels the wetness on his own wrist almost like a brand, because the scars that he can see look deep. They're rounded and gnarled, but aside from that... they're like his. Randall waits and watches, and when Matthew lifts his wrist, something inside of Randall breaks.

He reaches out like a snake striking. Matthew may be stronger than he is, but Randall is taller and quicker, and his hand wraps around Matthew's wrist before he can decide to do so. Randall swallows and his thumb presses against one of the burns he can see. He feels the warmth of it, feels the pulse underneath, and conflict burns under his skin.

"I haven't even told you my name," he murmurs, though he knows his ID has likely given it away by now. "I don't know you. I shouldn't--"

But Randall lifts Matthew's wrist higher anyway. He looks at it, at the burns, at the scars, and he slowly pulls it closer. His jaw bunches and aches.

"What does it feel like? The bond."

* * *

This could go wrong. There's the chance for anything to happen, really. Randall could call security. Randall could refuse to humor him. Matthew could get banned from the museum, even. There could be more legal troubles for him (which he really doesn't want or need). One-sided bonds aren't pretty. They're a breeding ground for complications such as stalking and restraining orders...

But Matthew has always enjoyed playing with fire. This is the path he's down. There's no going back.

There's also no guarantee that Randall will accept the bond. It hadn't necessarily been Matthew's intention in seeking out Randall. The symptoms haven't been unbearable. Uncomfortable, yes, but it's not about to drive him up the wall (at least not yet).

Randall is quick, his hand snapping out and clasping his wrist. Matthew doesn't resist. He wants this, after all. Randall's grip is strong and it feels unspeakably _good_ to have Randall touching him. The skin-on-skin contact is significant, but he'd already touched Randall's skin. Still, somehow it's different when it's in the reverse. Randall's thumb presses against one of his scars and Matthew feels his pulse pick up.

Logically, Randall _shouldn't_ bite him. Matthew isn't an idiot. They don't know anything about each other. They don't know about favorites, they don't know about families, they don't know about religion or politics. Randall would suffer symptoms too. It's not simple. It's not a decision to be made impulsively.

But it doesn't fucking matter to Matthew. Matthew stays still and lets Randall share his concerns. It's not a surprise even though it sounds a bit like rhetoric. Safe talk. For all Randall is protesting, he's not leaving or dropping Matthew's wrist, however. Matthew's wrist is actually lifted higher and Randall's blue eyes look over his scars with interest.

Matthew licks his lips as he's asked about the bond.

"Obviously it's not all fun and games being away from you," he says. There's no point in lying. "But... I've never been so fucking fascinated by anyone or anything before. The dreams? I can't shake them. They cling to me like spider webs. I see you... I don't know how you do it, exactly. But I feel the high and I want to see more of it. I wanna experience it with you."

* * *

Randall would like to pretend that this line of questioning is purely scientific, but he knows himself enough to know that it's not. He is not a man swayed by temptation. He doesn't smoke. He doesn't often drink. His years of losing himself in illicit drugs are mostly over, except for the awful days where he can't quite shrink his skin enough to match his body and nothing he does can calm the shrieking sense of _wrong_ that gets knocked around his mind. But looking at Matthew's wrist, the scars, the marks, the pronounced blue veins with blood thrumming underneath, he knows that this is a temptation of a different sort.

He's not touching to soothe Matthew's apparent discomfort. This man is still a stranger to him. But that he's asking to begin with... that he's listening as intently as he is - with sharp glances from blue eyes that always look dark with the way he keeps his head down - says everything. Matthew doesn't sugarcoat it. Oddly, Randall appreciates that. But when he continues, when he confesses to his fascination and mentions the _dreams_ , Randall's grip tightens. He doesn't notice.

Something solitary and defensive snarls in his throat, but there's something so settling about the notion that someone has seen him and wishes to see _more_. The conflicting desires claw through his mind until his breathing has quickened. When he looks down at Matthew's wrist, at the offering, he _wants_ , and that's a new feeling for him.

"Fascinated," Randall repeats. He sounds blank, but there's a quiet awe in his tone. "That's not a... typical reaction."

But it feels _good_. He blinks a few times and darts a quick glance up before looking back down at Matthew's wrist.

"You dream... every time? No one has ever seen before. Or wanted to."

The pulse in his throat is quick as Randall lifts Matthew's wrist up the rest of the way. The ache in his jaw is sharp, but this time he doesn't resist. He parts his lips and sets his teeth on either side of the delicate vein in Matthew's wrist, and it's as weird as it is right. Randall's never tasted the salt of another's flesh. Not until now. He doesn't dare bite; he doesn't want recklessness, but... but he _wants_.

* * *

In a way, it feels like what a confession might be like for someone who gave a damn about that kind of bullshit. Matthew feels lighter from what he's shared. It feels stupidly _good_ to be talking about it, too. Sure, he'd mentioned a little to his therapist. She of course asked a few cursory questions, but Matthew had the feeling that she was hoping to be able to figure out more about _him_ by pursuing the topic than actually believing him. Well, whatever. He only has a few more sessions until he's free.

Randall is odd. He seems detached or disconnected in general, but he's still trying. Randall is still here listening to him, holding his wrist and it means so much to Matthew. Matthew isn't sentimental. It's the dumb bond. It's gotta be. This close, Matthew observes that Randall is rather plain looking. He's the type of average that fades into the background. Matthew knows that Randall has no tattoos or hidden piercings. He knows Randall's work clothing, but Matthew doubts that anything Randall owns is flashy. But Matthew has the suspicion that this is done on purpose. It's a conscious decision. Randall wants to be left alone, tough luck...

Randall's fingers clasp more tightly as Matthew talks. Matthew likes the show of spirit, he likes the interest. He feels his own lips twitch. He wants to grin, but he also wants to laugh. It's an odd sensation of elation as Randall repeats the word _fascinated_. Matthew knows his reaction isn't typical. Matthew knows how the masses react to violence, how they react to fire. Destruction and destructive behavior is bad - no ifs, ands, or buts...

Matthew isn't surprised that no one has seen Randall attack. Obviously what Randall does in his private time is not public knowledge. No one would understand. Matthew isn't sure that even he understands. His wrist is raised and as he sees Randall's lips part, Matthew lets out a small groan. And then teeth are felt against his skin. Matthew's free hand comes to rest on Randall's shoulder and he squeezes encouragingly as he steps closer, pressing his hips against Randall's.

"I want to see all of you," Matthew whispers. "Please."

* * *

It's different using his own teeth. As _right_ as his suit feels, as perfect as its weight and power feel on his frame, this is what it's missing. Randall can rip and rend, can tear and crush, but the jarring snap of fangs aren't his own. They're mechanical, powered by springs and force and mechanisms he'd built on his own.

While blood still spatters his face, and while he can still revel in the terror of his victims, the taste of blood and the feeling of flesh rending and tearing between his teeth is absent. He's never dared try, not since his late parents had caught him with his face bloodied and the rabbit dead.

He's always operating at a disconnect, which suits him fine. His body isn't right. But as he presses his teeth to Matthew's wrist, he feels so much _more_. Warmth and life, the quicker pulse, the salt of sweat, the texture of his skin and scars, and the flex of tendons and muscle as the groan rends the air. He's not sure how he feels about it, and he's even _less_ sure when Matthew destroys the remaining personal space between them. Hips come to press close to his own (he's still taller) and he feels the solid, almost alien line of what must be Matthew's penis.

That... is new. Something twists uncertainly inside of him, as this is one aspect of life that Randall has never truly been exposed to. He'd never given into urges as a teenager; the risk of being _seen_ had been too great, and besides, he hadn't been what anyone had been looking for. Until now, apparently.

Matthew's free hand squeezes his shoulder, and Randall inwardly marvels at the strength in his touch. He is not a weak man. He is not frail. This is a man who could kill with his hands, and the knowledge sends a small, almost hopeful thrill up Randall's spine. Matthew could kill. He could _feel_ it. Matthew wants to see him - see _all_ of him - and Randall reminds himself again that he doesn't know this man. It's too much of a risk, too dangerous, too deadly.

Randall's jaw tightens. He sinks his teeth down until he feels the perfect resistance. He bites until he feels the mild ache in his jaw, until he feels the tightening and protesting tendons underneath. While he doesn't draw blood, he can sense the pain, the power, and it makes him feel weak in the knees.

The sound he makes is clipped off and mostly drowned out in the awed exhale he lets out, but it's still there. And when Randall finally lets go and leaves Matthew's wrist with deep imprints of his teeth that will undoubtedly bruise, he's surprised by how quickly his heart is beating, and how sensitized he feels. His slacks are slightly tented.

"If you have your phone, I'll give you my address. You can look, after work." Not _see_. Not yet. Just this concession is making Randall's pulse race.

* * *

The pieces fit like a puzzle. It feels like fate - which is such a stupid thought. Matthew has never cared for such concepts or ideals. Soulmates, destiny, fate... But here he fucking is, hidden in a storage room with Randall Tier, some freak who kills animals, and his dick is hard and he's encouraging Randall to bite his arm. Well then. This is not a typical Wednesday.

It's fucked up.

Matthew doesn't care.

 _Right_ and _want_ pounds in his skull. He's been tagged. There's no escaping. He hadn't wanted a bond. He hadn't even thought of the possibility of it. They're rare. They're not even a _good thing_ in the US. They're shitty content in soap operas, movies and the tabloids. But now this is Matthew's life. It's always been the flames calling to him, the urge to see fire change and consume, but now there's another layer, another obsession that is planting roots and these roots feel like they're going in deep.

The idea of Randall sending him away, the idea of not seeing Randall again? It's practically inconceivable to Matthew. He doesn't want to let himself even think about such an outcome. The roots grow and twist and embed. He couldn't stop setting fires and he can't stop this bond.

Matthew doesn't want to.

When Randall's teeth bite, Matthew gasps as both thrill and arousal shoot through him like heroin. He'd never liked heroin. Too overpowering, too intense, but this is something else. It doesn't leave him blissed out and stupid. It leaves him alive and excited. It's like the first flame and all Matthew wants is more, more, more. Sure, it hurts. It's pressure. It'll probably bruise, but it's Randall biting him and the sound that Randall makes nearly makes Matthew come right then and there.

It hasn't escaped Matthew's notice that he's not the only one hard, either. Randall pulls his mouth away. There is no blood, but there's indents and Matthew has the urge to lick them, to lick where Randall's saliva has touched, where his teeth have marked. Fuck.

It takes a few seconds for Matthew to process what Randall is saying. Phone. Address. After work.

He gives over his phone. Randall's contact information is given. Matthew texts him so Randall has his number now, too. A time and an address is given to him after he leaves the museum.

And seven hours later, Matthew is driving to a more rundown sparsely populated area on the outskirts. The house looks unremarkable, but there's a lot of space and trees blocking it in. It screams _private,_ but Matthew sees shelter and practicality. It makes sense that this is the type of place Randall would live.

Matthew's wearing his work uniform underneath his hoodie because he's working the nightshift and he doesn't know how long he'll be here (better safe than sorry). After parking, he jogs up to the door and knocks. He's a little sweaty, a little frantic looking. It hasn't been especially nice to be away from Randall, but such is the life of a recipient.


End file.
